A Boy In Pieces
by LynstHolin
Summary: DRAMIONE Multi-chapter Hermione Granger believes she may be able to help victims of the Cruciatus Curse who have been left mentally incapacitated. The first wizard she tries to heal: Draco Malfoy.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: dark subject matter, character death. The M-rating is for things that come later in the story.

...

The Healer frowned a little as she unlocked the door to the Janus Thickey Ward. "I would love to think that there is actually a possibility for a cure for those who have been permanently incapacitated by the Cruciatus Curse, I really would. But some of the wizarding world's greatest minds have been working on this problem. I apologize for any offense, but... you're just a girl."

Hermione had dressed conservatively in a brown suit and sensible shoes, and had pulled her hair back as neatly as possible, but she still looked her age: just nineteen. "Give me a chance, please. It couldn't do any harm, even if it doesn't work." She saw Alice Longbottom, sitting on the floor and licking one of Honeyduke's giant lollies; the woman just looked puzzled when Hermione waved. They passed Gilderoy Lockheart, who was beaming at his reflection in a mirror that was secured firmly to the wall.

The Healer sighed. "All right. If the Ministry thinks you're onto something, who am I to argue? You wanted our toughest case, and here he is. Just keep your distance from this one." The healer led Hermione to a heavy oak door at the rear of the ward.

"It's not usual for patients to have private rooms, is it?" Hermione ventured.

"No. But this one..."

The door creaked open, revealing a padded room. A man in a white hospital gown huddled in one corner, his face pressed against his knees. "Hello," Hermione said softly; "Don't be frightened." Oh, the poor, poor thing! He lifted his head just enough to reveal the glimmer of his eyes through the tangled hair that covered his face. "What's his name?" she asked the Healer.

"I believe you went to school with him. It's the Malfoy boy."

Hermione couldn't suppress a gasp. The white-blond hair that he had always been so vain about looked gray from being unwashed. He raised his head a little higher, revealing a face so haggard that Hermione would never have recognized him. His eyes were like black pits. "Malfoy?" No, this was a situation that called for a first name. A person responded on a much more primal, personal level to their given name. "Draco," she said in the tone of voice one would use on a shy toddler.

He froze, like an animal before a predator.

"Draco, it's all right. I'm here to help." Hermione started walking toward him slowly, holding her hands out.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," the Healer warned.

"He's terrified."

"Yes, and a frightened beast is a dangerous beast."

Hermione ignored that. When she was within three feet of Malfoy, she crouched down so she was eye-to-eye with him. "Let's talk."

In the blink of an eye, Malfoy exploded into motion, screaming as he threw himself on top of Hermione, his jagged fingernails raking her skin. He jerked and went limp when the Healer hit him with a Stunning spell. "Perhaps you'd better go with a case that is a little less... extreme," the older woman said as she rolled Malfoy off of Hermione.

As she sat up and straightened her clothes, Hermione shook her head. "I like a challenge."

...

The trembling didn't begin until Hermione was home. It was the adrenaline release from being attacked combined with the shock of seeing Malfoy reduced to an animal. No, _less_ than an animal. She had always been less than fond of him, but seeing him so utterly broken was still disturbing.

She had left the hospital shortly after the attack, ignoring the Healers who wanted to treat her wounds. Some dittany from her medicine cabinet took care of the scratches he had left on her arms. Next time, she would wear sturdier clothing that covered more skin. Her strategy was to let him become accustomed to her presence slowly.

Hermione had done a lot of reading on the psychological effects of torture: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, depression, severe anxiety, sexual dysfunction, an inability to form and sustain relationships with others, a high suicide rate, the loss of the ability to act in the world... Murder killed the body; torture killed the psyche.

Interestingly, nothing of what she had read had been written by wizards; the research was all done by Muggles. The Cruciatus Curse produced a level of distress that Muggle torturers could only dream of inflicting. Muggle torture would kill or render a person unconscious before it could make them suffer as much as a Cruciatus victim did. Prolonged, repeated use of the Cruciatus Curse could produce victims who were barely more than zombies. Like Malfoy.

Hermione had read up on treatment for torture victims, but she knew that, for what she was going to attempt to do, it was only a very crude guide. Hermione was going to see if Malfoy's original self was still inside him somewhere, and if it was, she was going to guide it back to the outside world.

...

"He attacked you?" Arthur asked, worry showing in his blue eyes.

"I'm fine," Hermione replied. "You can't even see the scratches now."

Molly laid a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "I admire you for what you're trying to do, dear, but please, please be careful, all right?"

"Don't worry, I'm Ministry-trained in self-defense."

"Do you really think you can help him?" Percy sounded less than convinced.

"I've researched everything that's been done for Cruciatus victims. It's been all spells and potions. I'm thinking that adding a Muggle approach may be useful. Muggles are ahead of wizards when it comes to psychology." That was far from the whole truth, but Hermione knew that the Weasleys and Harry would just worry and fret even more if they knew what she was actually going to attempt.

"Who tortured Malfoy, anyway?" Ginny asked as she poured a glass of pumpkin juice.

Hermione shrugged. "No one knows. I'm told he disappeared for a month and was found dumped in a street in Soho. The Malfoys must have paid to have it hushed up." Molly went to spoon more mashed potatoes on her plate, but Hermione held up a hand. "I couldn't eat another bite. And I should get home and prepare for tomorrow."

"You're going back St. Mungo's?" Harry asked.

"Yes." As Hermione walked to the fireplace, she could feel a dozen pairs of eyes following her. She knew what they were all thinking: s_he tries to save others because she feels guilty that she couldn't save Ron, poor girl_.

" 'Night, 'Mione," Fred called as she stepped into the green flames.

...

She tried to sleep without using the pills, but as soon as she closed her eyes, she saw it again.

_"Ron, look out!" She ran toward her boyfriend, wand out, but was too late. By the time she Stunned the creature, Ron had already succumbed to the venom. Rage she had never imagined she could feel burned through her, coming out of the tip of her wand and reducing the Acromantula to a charred husk. She knelt down and gathered Ron into her arms as she sobbed. They had kissed for the first time only a short time before, and now he was gone. _

With a sigh, she got out of bed and went to her medicine cabinet. Two pills washed down with water would give her a dreamless sleep. There was always the chance that she would become addicted to them, but anything was better than laying awake with the image of Ron's face, frozen in a rictus of terror, on the back of her eyelids all night.

...

Hermione sipped tea from a dainty, translucent cup as she sat with Narcissa in a cozy room with a roaring fire. Malfoy Manor was never going to be one of her favorite places, but she did like the chairs with their needle-point seats and the small, mosaic-topped table. Narcissa did her best to put on a polite smile, but her lips naturally tended to droop downwards. Hermione imagined that her distress over her son was as great as Molly's over losing Ron.

"Your poking about inside his brain had better not make him worse," Lucius barked, glaring. He refused to sit, standing stiffly in the doorway instead.

Hermione felt a flash of anger, but it subsided when she noted the way he had his arms wrapped around himself. The man was literally holding himself together. "I will do nothing to harm him, I promise," she said in her kindest voice. Lucius flinched and turned his head away.

A house elf came into the room and set a wooden crate on the floor next to Hermione. She finished her tea and stood up. "Won't you stay for another cup?" Narcissa asked hopefully. The older woman had to be awfully lonely if having tea with a Muggle-Born was the high point of her day.

"Sorry, I need to get to St. Mungo's. I'll be back soon to report any progress, though." She put a hand on the pocket of her trench-coat where her notebook was. She had already written on the top of the first page: _Session One, December 19, 1998_.


	2. Chapter 2

[Note: I made an error in the previous chapter-I had Draco wearing a straitjacket, and then scratching Hermione. Of course, he would not be able to scratch anyone while wearing a straitjacket. So I fixed it so that he was not wearing a straitjacket in chapter one.]

Warning: brief abuse of the mentally ill

...

The Healer frowned slightly as she took in the crate that followed Hermione. "There's nothing that could be used as a weapon, is there?"

"If he was capable of figuring out how to hurt someone with a teddy bear, he probably wouldn't be locked up in solitary confinement," Hermione said tartly.

The healer unlocked that ominous-looking door. "It's not solitary confinement, it's protective confinement."

"Same difference." The door swung open, and Hermione saw Draco shrink back into the corner. He was wearing a white jacket with sleeves that completely covered his arms and hands; they wrapped around and buckled to the sides. "A straitjacket!"

"Yes. We thought it would be best, after what happened last time."

"Get it off of him!" Hermione's color was high as she rounded on the Healer.

"It's for your own safety, Miss Granger."

"I don't care! I don't want him treated like an animal!"

The Healer gave Hermione a look of dislike. "You just come marching in here, a bloody schoolgirl, ordering us about and thinking you know better. If you didn't have the Ministry's backing-" The woman shrugged. "All right, then. It's your own hide you're risking." A murmured spell made the jacket vanish. "Have at him. If he attacks, scream. Someone is bound to come and rescue you eventually." The woman stalked away.

Malfoy had uncurled a little, watching her. As a precaution, Hermione took her wand out. Draco leapt up and she took a step back, but instead of coming at her, he turned around and started ripping at the padded wall behind him with his fingernails, his breathing loud and panicked. "Draco, it's all right. It's just me." He turned, revealing a face twisted by fear, and Hermione lifted her wand to cast a calming charm. At the movement, Malfoy let out a low moan and clawed at the leather pads more frantically.

"Oh, blast." What an idiotic mistake. Of course Malfoy would be terrified by having a wand pointed at him.

_Session One, December 19, 1998_

_Subject spent two hours trying to dig his way out through the padding of his cell, then fell into an exhausted sleep. _

...

"You're going to help Draco?" A massive hand closed on Hermione's elbow just outside the Janus Thickey Ward. It was Greg Goyle, dressed in the gray smock of a St. Mungo's maintenance worker. His small, dark eyes were far more expressive than she remembered them ever being, and the corners of his mouth drooped.

"I'm going to do my best," Hermione replied, patting his hand. Merlin knew, this hulking boy had done his best to make her school years miserable, but she couldn't help feeling bad for him. With Crabbe dead, Malfoy was all he had left. A trio with one missing. "Do you visit him?"

"All the time, though my mum says it's a waste of time. She says he don't know I'm there."

"I think he does know." The naked hope that these five words brought to Goyle's face was hard to look at. "I should get started on my session with him now. The staff here wants me out by a certain time."

Goyle looked down at the hand that gripped Hermione's arm in surprise. "Oh. Sorry." He released her. "They gave me the key." He lumbered ahead of her, giving the impression of being a little boy inside an oversized body.

Hermione had worn long sleeves today so she could keep her wand handy but tucked out of sight. The wooden crate she had gotten from the elder Malfoys followed, settling on the floor with a slight bump. When the door opened, Malfoy was huddled up in that same corner. She was happy to see no sign of the straitjacket. "Hello, Draco," she said softly. He shrank away.

"Can I watch?" Goyle asked.

In the Muggle world, the answer would be no. Patient confidentiality. But the wizarding world had no such rules. "I don't see why not." Hermione took the lid off the crate and pulled out a worn teddy bear with one button eye missing. "Look. It's Mr. Sprinkles." She sat the toy on the floor just inside the cell. Next, she pulled out a wedding portrait of Lucius and Narcissa, leaning it on the wall so Malfoy could see it; his parents hadn't been in to see him since the day that his mother had an attack of hysteria that had terribly upset the residents of the ward. Opening a latched box a crack, she said, "Be good, now," to what was within. It was a practice snitch, so battered that it didn't look golden any more. When she released it, it hovered, then flew in lazy circles. Hermione noticed Malfoy's eyes tracking it. Was that a good sign, or would his gaze be drawn by any movement? She took out another photograph; this one was of Malfoy with his friends. She hoped it would remind him of better times.

The last thing she took from the crate was a worn copy of 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard.' It fell open to 'The Wizard and the Hopping Pot'- his favorite story, according to his parents. Hermione expected Goyle to leave when it became clear that Hermione was just going to read aloud the entire session, but he sat on the floor listening the entire time.

_Session Two, December 20, 1998_

_Read aloud to subject for two hours; subject never left corner of cell. When I tried to get close, subject panicked. _

_Session Three, December 21, 1998_

_Subject never left corner of cell; when I tried to get close, subject panicked. Calmed down when I read 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune.'_

_Session Four, December 22, 1998_

_Subject never left corner of cell; when I tried to get close, subject panicked. Calmed down when I read 'Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump._

_Session Five, December 23, 1998_

_Subject never left corner of cell; when I tried to get close, subject panicked. Calmed down when I read 'The Warlock's Hairy Heart.'_

_Session Six December 24, 1998_

_Subject never left corner of cell; when I tried to get close, subject panicked. Calmed down when I sang 'Hoggy Warty Hogwarts' to the tune of 'Good King Wenceslas.'_

...

Of course, Fred and George spotted it immediately. The paper, which had a motif of dancing Christmas trees, was lumpy and wrinkled and crookedly taped, with 'DONOT OPEN TIL XMAS DAY' scrawled all over it. "A present to one Hermione G., from one Greg G.," Fred said, looking at the tag. "How sweet. You'll have the same initials after you get married."

"Shut it." Hermione aimed a kick at Fred's rump, but he was too quick.

The couch she sat on was quite crowded; she was squashed in between Harry and Bill, who had their respective mates beside them. At this point, Hermione wasn't sure she would be able to get up, she was wedged in so tightly. "All right, then, everyone has a gift. Who's going to open first?" Molly asked. Her holiday cheer was a little forced. It was the first Christmas without Ron. His portrait sat on a chair, and every time he grinned, it was like a blow to the solar plexus.

"Hermione," Fred and George said in unison.

_I should have opened this at home_, she thought as she untied the red yarn that served as ribbon. Inside was a candy dish that, though made of cheap molded glass, was surprisingly pretty, with swirls of red and pink all through it. "He gave you a candy dish 'cause he's sweeeeeeeeet on you," Fred said. Hermione pretended to throw it at his head.

"Is that Goyle boy really courting you?" Molly asked.

"Merlin, no! Your sons are being idiots. He's just grateful that I'm trying to help his friend."

Harry was next. He opened a gift from Ginny- a framed glamour shot of herself. "For your desk at work," Ginny said. Harry gave her a kiss. Hermione had to look away.

"Look! I got a rubber duck from Molly!" Arthur crowed.

"Harry helped me find it," Molly said. "Since you've been talking about them for years."

George got a bottle of mead from Angelina. Audrey gave Percy an engraved pocket watch. Even Charlie had brought a mate with him, a dark Romanian woman who seemed to think he was the most amazing thing on the planet. Everyone there was paired up, except for Hermione. Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, Hermione jumped off the couch and pulled on the woolly purple monstrosity that she had just gotten from Molly. "I need fresh air," she explained. Ignoring the babble of concerned questions, she walked out of the Burrow into a cold so deep that it kept the world quiet and still around her.

That night, she took three pills.

...

Hermione found herself with nothing to do on Boxing Day, so she stopped in at St. Mungo's for an unplanned session and found the padded cell door open. Someone had cast a strong muffling spell at the entrance, and she had no clue as to what was happening until she walked into the small room. Malfoy was suspended in mid-air, his arms and legs bound. His thrashing body was held flat by two large men- including a very unhappy-looking Goyle- while one Healer held his head and another forced food into his mouth. Malfoy was trying to scream. "What's going on here?" Hermione demanded. "What are you doing to my patient?"

The Healers glared at Hermione. "He refuses to eat, so we make him. I imagine that if he starved, you'd have something to say about that, too."

Malfoy nipped at one of the Healer's fingers, and she slapped him. Hermione filled with cold rage. "You're still living in the bloody Middle Ages!" All right, that was a bit unfair; the Muggle world had treated the mentally ill just as badly until quite recently. But, at the moment, Hermione was too angry to be fair. "No wonder I can't make any progress with him, with this happening to him every day!" She walked up to one of the Healers and poked her hard in the chest. "I'm taking him out of this place. There are holding cells at the Ministry."

"That's fine with me," the Healer snapped. "That frees up resources for someone deserving."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm still treating the victims of Death-Eater scum like him, and having to help him makes me sick. He got what was coming to him, as far as I'm concerned." The woman's eyes were wild-looking. Hermione knew there had to be a story there, some sort of personal trauma, but, still, this was inexcusable behavior for a professional in the healing arts. She almost brought up the Hippocratic Oath, then remembered that it was a Muggles-only concept.

Hermione's eyes met Goyle's; it was clear from the tightness of his mouth that he was close to his breaking point. "I'm headed straight to his parents' house from here to get their permission to move him. He's not going to be treated this any more."


	3. Chapter 3

No warnings for this chapter.

...

"What do you think?" Shacklebolt asked.

"I can't help but be a bit disturbed by the one-way glass. I mean, I understand that it's necessary to keep an eye on him. It just bothers me that people can be watching him at any time without him having any idea," Hermione replied. "But, then again, if he sees too many people, he gets agitated."

"It was the best we could come up with for him."

"It had better be your best." Lucius Malfoy had arrived to inspect his son's new quarters. He was painfully thin, the skin of his face tight against his bones. Worry and grief had whittled him down. He had a protective arm around his wife. "But better here than at St. Mungo's. I was told that someone there took offense to Miss Granger's meddling and deliberately gave Draco to use as a test case because they deem him incurable."

It was irritating that Lucius was talking to Shackelbolt as if Hermione wasn't there. "I think there are some at St. Mungo's who would be glad if he was never cured," she interjected. "Healers are not immune from feeling vindictive."

Narcissa was at the front wall of the cell, which was all glass. Within was a bunk with no sharp corners or edges; the pillow was firmly attached. Mr. Sprinkles slumped in the middle of the mattress. "There are no blankets," she said faintly.

"Inmates can ha- ah, hurt themselves with blankets. The cell is temperature controlled," Shacklebolt told her.

From where Hermione was standing, the older woman's reflection was superimposed on the wedding portrait that was affixed to the rear wall of the cell; Narcissa's careworn visage contrasted with her younger self. Next to the wedding portrait was the photo of Draco with Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini. The practice snitch fluttered around lazily. "The walls are stone," Narcissa said abruptly. "He could- he could hurt himself on them."

Hermione didn't say anything. She just opened the door of the cell and ran at the rear wall as fast as she could. Two feet from the wall, she felt as if she had been grabbed by a pair of fat, soft arms, and her momentum was completely arrested. "You see?" she called. "He can't hurt himself. He's safe."

There was a hubbub in the hall, and an unconscious Draco floated in on a stretcher. Hermione had demanded that he be cleaned up while he was anesthetized, and his hair, though ragged, was shiny and white-blond again. The attendants from St. Mungo's transferred him to the bunk. His thin legs stuck out from under the hospital gown, his feet in paper slippers.

"Can- can I be there with him when he wakes up?" Narcissa asked.

"Stand where he can see you, and we'll see what happens," Hermione told her.

An envelope zoomed around the corner, landing in Shacklebolt's hand. He broke the seal and frowned. "I must leave. All Hell threatens to break loose. Just like last week, and the week before that."

Hermione grinned and wiggled her fingers at him in farewell. Having Shacklebolt's support was invaluable. He wasn't Minister yet, but everyone knew it would happen. He was also the only one who knew what exactly she was going to try, and he had helped her prepare. Unspoken between them was how his past led him to understood what drove her.

When Draco's eyelids started to flutter open, his mother stood just inside the door. His movements were sluggish, like he was underwater. He moved from his back to his side, curling up and peering at the two women from under his shaggy hair. "Draco," Narcissa said in a heart-breakingly small voice. His eyes focused on her. "He knows me."

Hermione hoped so.

_December 29, 1998_

_Subject allowed his mother to approach within four feet of him before he started to panic._

...

"He hasn't had anything to eat since he got here yesterday?" Lucius' face darkened.

"Yes, but I have a plan," Hermione said. She hadn't realized that moving him to the Ministry would mean that his parents would be visiting so much. But the cell was located in a quiet corner, and when Narcissa had broken down, wailing and falling on her knees, there had been no one to be disturbed by it except Draco. Having Lucius Malfoy looming over her while she worked was a bit unnerving, though. She swore he had to be wearing lifts in his shoes; he couldn't possibly be that tall.

"Let's see it," Lucius sniffed.

Hermione floated a bowl of chicken broth into the cell. Draco's eyes tracked it, but he made no move toward it. It lowered to the floor a few feet from the bunk, and Hermione, standing in the doorway, began to sing. It was a string of nonsense syllables that contained a charm; Molly Weasley had used it on all of her children to get them to eat when they were being finicky. "Eee nah noh nah, Eee lah loh lah..." Hermione could hear Lucius huffing impatiently; a rich wizard like him would have had nothing to do with raising children, and would have no idea what the song really was.

Draco gazed at Hermione and tilted his head. He uncurled, getting up on his knees on the bunk, and then he slowly got down on the floor, as carefully as a toddler climbing out of a crib. Narcissa inhaled deeply and held her breath as he moved on all fours. Picking up the bowl in both hands, he brought it to his mouth and drank. Quite a bit slopped out onto his hospital gown and the floor, but Hermione could tell he was getting most of it down. A surprise sneeze cut off her song and Draco immediately hurled the bowl at the glass wall, but very little broth spilled out. He leapt back onto his bunk, curling up again, but, though he looked watchful, he didn't seem panicked.

Hermione turned, catching Lucius regarding her with something that was suspiciously close to a smile. "You certainly are full of surprises," he said in his old drawl.

"Oh, hello, Narcissa, Lucius." The cool voice came from short, round woman that Hermione had seen at Platform 9¾ several times. Hermione recognized her as Goyle's mother, and there he was, trailing behind her with a gift basket from Sugarplum's Sweets Shop. "Pity we don't get together more often," Mrs. Goyle said to the Malfoys with complete insincerity.

"Yes, yes," Narcissa replied, twisting her hands together. "Ah, we were just leaving, Bernice. Weren't we, Lucius?"

Lucius was avoiding a glare from Bernice. "Quite." He put a hand on his wife's back, steering her toward the main corridor.

Bernice turned her small, brown eyes to Hermione, giving her a thorough inspection. "So you're the one getting Greg's hopes up."

Hermione frowned. "Excuse me?"

"I keep telling him, Draco is _gone_. They might as well hold a funeral for him. But Greg insists on visiting him and talking to him, though he might as well be talking to a pile of twigs." Hermione opened her mouth to say that she thought, on some level, it did Draco good, but Bernice just steamrolled right over her. "The boy hardly gets any ideas of his own, but once he _does_ get one in that thick head of his, there's no talking him out of it. He's used to Draco telling him what to do. Just like his father. Lucius would say 'jump,' and my husband would say, 'how high?' A fat lot of good it did _him_. He's rotting in Azkaban while Lucius walks around free."

Hermione had sometimes wondered why Goyle spoke so little. She was starting to understand.

"Anyway, you're wasting your time, girlie. You'd think a war hero like you would be doing something productive. Maybe getting a husband. You've got child-bearing hips, might as well put them to use." Bernice gave her son a rough pat on the head. "Be home in time for dinner." She bustled away.

As Ron used to say, _bloody hell_. It was obvious that the woman had just wanted to check Hermione out. She wasn't seriously thinking of her son as a match for her, was she?

Goyle was just inside the cell door with the basket. "Hey, Draco. I got you a present. It's all your favorites. Except I ate one of the chocolate frogs. Mum said it was a stupid thing to buy and that you won't eat them." He looked down at the floor.

Hermione took a confection from the basket, a white chocolate tiger with dark chocolate stripes. She smiled as it paced on her palm. "Oh, he will."

_December 30, 1998_

_Subject ate one bowl of broth, one candy tiger, and ten jellybeans. _

_December 31, 1998_

_Subject ate two bowls of broth and ten jellybeans. Was able to get within four feet of him before he panicked._

_January 1, 1999_

_Subject ate three bowls of broth and a chocolate frog. Was able to get within four feet of him before he panicked._

_January 2, 1999_

_Subject ate three bowls of broth and a bubble lolly. Was able to get within four feet of him before he panicked._

_January 3, 1999_

_Subject ate three bowls of broth, a fizzing lolly, and last of the jellybeans. Was able to get within __three__ feet of him before he panicked._

...

Three feet. That was nearly arms-length. The last eight days, he had tried to climb the wall when she had gotten that close, but today he just drew back a little, watching her from underneath his hair.

Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor and held her hands up, a few inches apart. She murmured a charm, and a sliver circle formed between them. It was an opaque mirror on Draco's side, but Hermione could see through it. The mirror test was a scientific measurement of self-awareness. An individual of a more intelligent species, a human or an elephant or an orangutan, was able to grasp that his reflection in a mirror was actually himself, not another member of his species. If Draco could pass the mirror test, then that meant he was still _in there, _Hermione believed.

Draco reared back and the mirror cracked. Hermione tensed. Slowly, Draco leaned forward, peering into the mirror. He brushed his hair back and touched his face all over, as if he was rediscovering it. His eyes seemed to meet Hermione's, sending a shock straight through her. _He was there_. Then he backed away, pressing his back against the wall and letting his hair fall over his face.

A big, happy grin spread over Hermione's face.

_January 9, 1999_

_I am ready to begin Phase Two._


	4. Chapter 4

No warnings for this chapter.

….

_The calendar on the wall said Deecember 14__th__. "This is a test," Shacklebolt said. "Do your best." _

_Hermione leaned forward, propping her elbows on the desk between them, and stared into his eyes. She felt resistance immediately, but she kept pushing, and she was rewarded with a glimpse of a girl with her hair in two braids. "Kingsley, if you don't stop that, I'm telling Mum!" the girl said crossly, her hands on her hips. _

_The image flickered, and then Hermione was seeing the girl as a young woman, dressed in a hospital gown and screaming hysterically. "Carmen, it's me!" a younger version of Shacklebolt said pleadingly. The scene changed again: autumn leaves hitting a freshly-carved tombstone that said 'Carmen Regina Shacklebolt, Beloved Daughter and Sister, 1960-1979.' _

_Hermione felt a tiny invasion, taking advantage of her absorption in what she was seeing to sneak into her mind. She imagined chopping it with an ax, and it recoiled. "Good," she heard Shacklebolt say. "I knew you would be able to learn both Legilimency and Occlumency, but your progress is nothing short of amazing." Hermione withdrew, and now she was looking at Shacklebolt again. His face was a bit shiny, and his mouth was tight. "I'm not boasting when I say that I'm among the very best practitioners of both in my generation. If you can hold your own with me, then you are among the best in your own generation." He took a deep breath and blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. "And you have seen why I support you in this completely, even though I know it has risks. I will be notifying St. Mungo's that you are coming." _

Shacklebolt's confidence in her was just what Hermione needed. It gave her strength. Ron's death had made her feel weak and incompetent. When she was wracked by self-doubt and lying wide awake in her bed at three o' clock in the morning, she reminded herself of the faith that Shacklebolt had in her. It helped, though not as much as the sleeping pills.

Today, Hermione felt a bit wired. She'd taken three pills the night before, and had needed a pot full of coffee to blast the fuzz out of her brain. Now she was beyond wide awake. Which was good, because she wanted her mind as clear as possible for what she was about to do. She was sitting cross-legged in front of Draco, who was crouched on the edge of his bunk. He looked wary, but calm. Close up, Hermione could see that he could use a shave. Due to his youth, he had the same sort of patchy growth that Harry had (and which drove Ginny crazy when Harry was too lazy to shave), though his was light blond. His gaze was wandering all over the cell, but Hermione managed to lock eyes with him _just_ long enough.

There was a little resistance, but not as much as she had expected. All around her was an off-white mist. A sound of tiny paws drew her attention: a dirty kitten with matted fur stared at her, its gray eyes round with alarm. "Hey, there, kitty," Hermione cooed, squatting down and slowly stretching a hand out toward it. "Youch!" The kitten, hissing and spitting, had scratched Hermione's knuckles. Considering that this was happening strictly inside of their heads, the verisimilitude of the brief, stinging pain was amazing. The kitten took off, its tail bushed out, and Hermione chased after it, barging into the mist. "Please, come back!"

A roar made her freeze. The mist swirled away from the figure of a massive brown bear covered in brass armor. _He's not a real bear. You can deal with him._ Hermione made herself take a step forward, and she noticed that the kitten was sitting under the bear's belly, looking up at her with what could only be called a smirk. Even with the bear standing on all fours, his head was level with Hermione's. He lifted his upper lip as he let out a rumbling growl that Hermione felt in her bones, and saliva dripped from his fangs. "Um, Mr. Bear. Hi."

A paw bigger around than a dinner plate lashed out, knocking Hermione right out of Draco's mind. Hermione clutched her head for a moment; the bear hit _hard_. But, at the very last second, just before that paw covered in gleaming metal broke the connection, Hermione had noticed that the eyes that glared at her through the brass face-plate were just like the kitten's.

After she recovered, Hermione stood up and stretched. The session hadn't been long at all, but she felt tired out already. It was as if she had been exercising vigorously for an hour straight, except it was her brain that felt limp and achy. Draco had retreated on his bunk until his back was pressed against the wall, but he still didn't seem panicky, thank Merlin. His knees were drawn up to his chin. He had kicked off his slippers, and his bare feet seemed almost heart-breakingly vulnerable. _Feet? Why am I noticing his feet?_

Her thoughts were disturbed by a knock at the cell door. Just outside, Greg waited with his mother. "Still nothing, eh?" Bernice asked. "It's a shame to see a girl like you wasting her best years like this." Greg edged past the women, carrying a small fruit basket into the cell. He laid it on the floor not far from Draco and began to sing the song-charm that he had learned from listening to Hermione. His voice was creaky, and rather froggy, but Draco responded, eating an apple and two kiwi fruit. After a while, Bernice said, "You should come have dinner with us, get to know my son better. He's not the smartest, but he's got other qualities. And we've got money-"

Greg spun around. "_Shut up_, Mum!"

Bernice's face twisted. "I brought you into this world, boy, and I can take you out!" The older woman put a hand over her mouth and giggled. "Oh, pardon me, Miss Granger. We shouldn't air the family laundry in public. I'll leave you two youngsters alone. I'm making shepherd's pie tonight. Mine is the best you've ever tasted. I plan on sharing the recipe with my future daughter-in-law. Come and give it a try if you can."

Hermione gaped at the woman's retreating back. As Ron would have said, _bloody hell_.

"Don't come. I know you don't want to." Hermione turned and looked at Greg, who was facing Draco again; she could only see the back of his bullet-shaped head, but she could tell that he was staring at the floor. "I know girls-" He turned around abruptly and stalked out of the cell, brushing past Hermione and leaving without another word.

Bloody hell, indeed.

...

The Animagus records archive was a surprisingly cozy space, with half-timbered walls hung with portraits of wizards in their animal forms, ranging from butterflies to dolphins. Behind a horse-shoe shaped oak counter were shelves fitted with hundreds of little cubby-holes. The woman working the counter was the oldest witch that Hermione had ever seen; she had to be pushing three-hundred. Her face looked like a walnut, and she had only a few wisps of hair left on her head. "May I help you, dear?" Her badge said Violetta Durbeyfield.

Hermione showed her own ID badge; it had a symbol on it that indicated that most Ministry records were open to her. "I was wondering, were there ever any animagi in the Malfoy family?"

"Oh, of course! The youngster." Violetta nodded, setting her jowls in motion.

Hermione actually jumped a little. "Draco?"

"Who? Never heard of him. I mean Abraxas." Violetta got down from her stool; her head didn't completely clear the counter. She poked around in the cubbyholes and pulled out a scroll. "I wonder if he still plays Quidditch. He's a wonderful Seeker, moves like a dragonfly on his broom." She set the scroll down on the counter in front of Hermione and winked. "Probably still has an eye for the ladies. If I was a pretty young thing like you, I wouldn't mind taking him for a flight."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh at the elderly woman's ribaldry. Ancient witches and wizards were like that, she had found; they didn't sugar-coat things. _I can't bring myself to tell her that Abraxas Malfoy is a few years dead now, _she thought. She undid the ribbon holding the scroll closed. Along with some official boilerplate about how Abraxas was a legally registered animagus, there were two photographs glued to the document. One was a shot of a tall, handsome man. Abraxas had been a bit burlier than his son and grandson, but his face was much the same. He grinned cockily at the camera and winked. Extremely good-looking, and quite aware of it.

The other photograph was of an ordinary brown bear; Abraxas in his animal form. Hermione supposed that the great size and the armor of the bear in Draco's head were the result of a child's fancy, or perhaps a grandfather entertaining his grandson with slightly exaggerated tales. It was obvious that the Abraxas in Draco's head was a protector. Draco must have felt very secure with his grandfather. Now Hermione just had to convince the Abraxas-bear that she meant Draco no harm.


End file.
